


Walk a Mile in My Shoes

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bodyswap, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Golden Week, Kinktober 2019, Training Camp, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 11:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Yahaba just wanted his first training camp experience to be nice. He didn't ask for any of this tomfoolery.





	Walk a Mile in My Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 3 - Prompt: Bodyswap

The swaying motions of the bus rock Yahaba in and out of sleep, but voices grow around him, dragging him reluctantly into wakefulness. Body heat warms his cheek. Lifting his head off Watari’s shoulder, he leans back in his seat.

“We’re almost there, Shigeru.” Watari nudges his arm. “I can’t wait.”

“You have to wait,” Iwaizumi snaps, somewhere farther away. The sounds of scuffling reach his ears, and Yahaba guesses he’s fighting hard to keep Hanamaki and Kyoutani from playing mercy again.

“It’s been a long time since we went to a train camp,” Watari protests.

“That’s because of Oikawa-san,” one of their managers whispers, and the others erupt into thinly concealed giggles around her.

Stretching, Yahaba opens his eyes. He hadn’t meant to sleep. His book lies on the floor as a testament of his resistance, but his exhaustion won out in the end.

“Morning, sunshine.” Matsukawa reaches over to ruffle his hair.

Yahaba yawns. “I miss anything?”

“Iwaizumi-san kicked Oikawa-san off the seat,” Watari says. He points to where Oikawa now sits alone behind the coach. “And Hanamaki-san found out you can dance to ‘Everytime We Touch’ when going over the speedbumps.”

“Is that a request for an encore?”

“No!” a chorus of shouts echoes through his ears.

Before Hanamaki can argue, the bus coasts to a rocky stop. “We’re here,” the coach says.

“Finally,” Kyoutani mumbles.

“Alright.” Oikawa claps his hands. “Remember, be on your best behavior. We want to make a good impression when we destroy them in practice.”

“This is why no one invites us to training camps,” Matsukawa says.

“Thank you, Mattsun, for giving a perfect example of what we will not be saying around other people.”

Shouldering his way between Oikawa and the rest of them, Iwaizumi says, “Let’s go. Stretch out your legs so we can head inside and greet the hosts.”

Watari jumps from his seat. “Do ya’ think we’re the first ones here?” The pale morning light illuminating his face would suggest that they are, but Yahaba still stands to look out of the window with him. An empty parking lot greets them. A wide pathway cuts a neat line up to the school, its gym hidden from view.

“There’s another bus pulling in.” Kindaichi points out of his window. Watari squeezes his way past Yahaba to look.

“Guys, let’s go.” Oikawa scans down a clipboard, counting heads. “Watacchi, check. Kindaichi, check. Kunimi-chan, hmm? Kunimi-chan?”

“He’s here.” Kindaichi lifts Kunimi up. His head rolls to the side like a corpse, but he lifts a tired hand to ascertain that he is in fact still alive.

Oikawa taps his pen on the clipboard. “Right, right. Okay, that’s every—”

The clipboard hits the floor.

Yahaba jumps. “Oikawa-san?”

The color drips from Oikawa’s face, returning quickly in irritated red. His lips thin into a dangerous line. “Iwa-chan, get everyone back on the bus.”

“What?”

“No,” Watari gasps.

Curiosity pushes Yahaba to move forward. Squeezing around Kunimi, who collapsed back into his seat like a sprawled-out starfish the moment Kindaichi released him, he glances over Watari’s shoulder. Lingering tiredness leaves his vision blurry. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to read the name on the side of the bus.

Flaming red hair. A man much too large to be a mere high schooler. A setter with hard eyes but a smile that betrays him.

Yahaba no longer needs to read the name. Dread wells in his stomach. Collapsing in the seat next to Kunimi, he drops his head in his hands. “This is just a bad dream.”

“More like a nightmare.” Retrieving his clipboard, Oikawa marches off the bus.

Pain shoots up his arm. Yahaba swats Kunimi’s hand away. “Don’t pinch me.”

“Making sure you’re awake,” Kunimi says around a yawn, looking far more asleep than Yahaba feels.

The excitement fades from Watari’s face. He scratches his head, lips tugged into a serious frown. “They brought their whole team. Something tells me this training camp isn’t gonna be relaxing after all.”

Returning to the window, Yahaba allows his gaze to drift from their third year with the reliable receives to their new excitable first year with a bowl cut and a warning sign engraved in all of his spikes. The team forms an unruly line as they make their way to the gym. The black and purple of their practice clothes blur, like a scab forming over golden week, leaving their future as bleak as the sunless sky above them.

A short setter hangs back, headphones in his ears, and drags his feet as he passes by their team, ignoring Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s twin glares. Yahaba sighs. He’s entered a war zone, and he can’t tell which bomb will go off first.

* * *

His hands burn. Refusing to be shown up by Shiratorizawa, Yahaba picks up another volleyball and throws it in the basket. His stomach growls. Stubbornly, he picks up the next one.

The captain of the host team approaches. “Your help is appreciated.”

Yahaba wipes the sweat from his forehead. “It’s the least we can do, Kita-san.”

Kita surveys the gym with an inscrutable gaze. It’s intimidating. Yahaba can’t tell if he’s searching for equipment that’s been overlooked or a place to hide a dead body, but he nods his approval, leaving Yahaba to hope it’s the first option. “I can handle the rest. You should go eat.”

“You sure you don’t want to come with?” Yahaba asks. He glances at the gym door as if he can see past it to the lunch area beyond. “They may run out of food soon.” His mind drifts unwillingly to their food eating contest. Iwaizumi finished a whopping seven bowls of ramen, but the head manager put him to shame with nine bowls, each licked cleaned.

Kita considers it for a moment. “My grandmother packed me a lunch. Please”—he smiles—“help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Yahaba grins. “I’ll try to get them to save ya’ something.” Walking out of the gym, Yahaba stretches out his wrists, flexing his fingers. His arms sting. Their lunch break won’t be nearly long enough to recover from so many practice matches, but at least he’ll have a moment to sit and rest.

Someone shouts.

Dread fills Yahaba’s stomach. Walking faster, he tells himself it must be the Inarizaki twins going at it again, but the growl that follows, like a wild animal that was reincarnated in the form of a perpetually angry teenage boy, dashes his hopes.

Ahead, he sees Goshiki speaking, but the words are drowned out beneath the manager’s scream. Kyoutani lunges forward. Goshiki raises his fists.

Yahaba dives between them. Kyoutani slams into his back. Planting his feet, he reaches out to swat Goshiki’s poorly aimed punch away.

Goshiki stumbles backwards. Before Yahaba can process why, hands grab his collar. A forehead slams into his. Stars erupt across his vision. Blinking through the haze, he makes out stormy brown eyes and a mouth that moves without speaking when his knees give out.

Yahaba presses a hand to his head. “Ow.”

“Shigeru!”

“Are you okay, Yahaba-san?”

“Yahaba?” Oikawa appears in front of him. He brushes the hair out of Yahaba’s eyes with gentle fingers. “How do you feel?”

“Ow.” Over Oikawa’s shoulder, Yahaba watches Semi drag Shirabu backward. Tendou hugs Goshiki to his chest like a mother holding their traumatized child.

“You idiot,” Semi hisses.

Shirabu shoves him away. “He picked a fight with a first year.”

He’s right, Yahaba realizes, but before he can yell at Kyoutani, Shirabu’s harsh glare falls on Yahaba. Cold realization fills his chest.

“Here.” Iwaizumi presses an icepack to his head. “Hanamaki’s getting you some food.”

“Hanamaki-san will eat his food,” Kunimi says. Yahaba can’t remember when he arrived.

Besides him, Kindaichi nods. “I got him a plate.”

Hands grip Yahaba’s arms and pull him to his feet. His head throbs. Blinking away a new surge of stars, Yahaba realizes he still hasn’t answered Oikawa, but he can’t remember the question either. Everything is still spinning. Gripping the nearest person for support, he says, “You don’t understand.”

Oikawa and Iwaizumi exchange a glance.

Yahaba tenses. “Did I say something weird?”

“No,” Oikawa says at the same time Kunimi says, “Yes.” Yahaba blinks.

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “You need to rest. C’mon.” Grabbing the plate from Kindaichi, he wraps his other arm around Yahaba’s shoulders and guides him toward the tables.

Yahaba tightens his grip, only to realize he’s gripping his own arm. Letting go, he tugs at his shirt hem instead. “I can still play.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t look at him. “Just take it easy.”

Yahaba glances back the way they came. Ushijima stands before Oikawa, head dipped in an awkward bow. Behind him, Shirabu shifts uncomfortably. He tries to escape, but Reon stops him with a look.

“I can still play,” Yahaba repeats more firmly. He flexes his fingers, stretching his wrists. His head feels too hot, but the world has finally stopped spinning. Watching as the Shiratorizawa players walk back to their own table, Yahaba almost thinks Shirabu stumbles, but he keeps going, head held high, telling Yahaba he must have imagined it.

Patting his back, Iwaizumi walks away without answering.

* * *

Yahaba doesn’t know what woke him up. His muscles burn. Exhaustion clings to him. His eyes sting. Somewhere to his left, someone snores. He tries to ignore it. Rolling onto his side, he can’t shake the feeling that his bed feels backwards, as if he had turned around in his sleep somehow, like he used to do as a child.

The gym door opens and closes.

Yahaba bolts upright. In front of the doorway, Oikawa toes off his shoes and lines them up with the others. Yahaba sighs in relief. “Morning run?” he whispers.

Oikawa glares. The sight chills him to the bone. Yahaba’s grip tightens around his blanket. He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“Mhm?” The person next to him sits up and yawns. He scratches mused hair, much too long to be Watari’s, much too fair to be Kyoutani’s. The ugliest shirt Yahaba has even seen bunches around his shoulders when he stretches. Smothering a yawn with his hand, he mumbles a sleepy, “Morning.”

Panic surges in his chest, but Yahaba forces himself to nod. “Good morning.”

Semi freezes. He looks Yahaba up and down, raising a confused eyebrow. “You’re… pleasant, today.”

“I,” Yahaba starts, but he has no idea what to say next. Early morning light pours in through the high set windows. Looking around, he finds more Shiratorizawa players, all of the Seijoh team on the far side of the gym. Distantly, Yahaba remembers going to sleep early when the coaches prohibited him from playing in any more matches, but he didn’t think he’d be so out of it as to steal someone else’s bed.

“You’re going to apologize today,” Semi states. He crosses his arms over his chest, but his bedhead is too distracting for him to be intimidating.

“Apologize?” Yahaba rubs his head. The pain in his forehead has faded to a distant ache. His voice sounds weird. Clearing his throat, he asks, “To Goshiki-kun?”

Both eyebrows lift now, disappearing under the messy fringe of his bangs. “Uh, yes,” he concedes. “But I mean to that kid. The reserve setter.”

The snoring cuts off as Tendou wakes. He sits up with an exaggerated stretch and loops his arms around Semi. “Morning,” he slurs, snuggling into Semi’s shoulder.

Yahaba looks away. Heat floods his face. He hadn’t realized anyone on their team had that kind of relationship.

“Aww.” Arms wrap around Yahaba, nearly knocking him down. “What’s wrong?” Yahaba struggles to push him away, but Tendou pulls him closer, planting a sloppy kiss on top of his head. “Jealous, Kenjirou?”

“No, I—” Yahaba freezes. Tendou immediately lets him go.

“Damn,” Semi whispers. “You broke him.”

Yahaba’s done wasting time with them. Standing up, he walks to the bathroom, not bothering to get his stuff. He can worry about brushing his teeth later when he’s not surrounded by weirdos. Tendou specializes in getting under people’s skin during matches; it shouldn’t be a surprise that he does it off the court, too.

“Stupid training camp.” Yahaba turns on the faucet, letting the water warm his hands. “Stupid Shiratorizawa.”

Stormy brown eyes meet his, and Yahaba jumps. In the mirror, Shirabu stares at him in shock. Yahaba whips around, but Shirabu isn’t there. He looks from the checked tiles to the stalls, waiting for Shirabu to magically appear. No one does. He’s the only person there.

“Now, I’m seeing things, too.” Yahaba turns back to the mirror, but the sight that greets him sends a chill down his spine. He lifts his hand. In the mirror, Shirabu raises his hand. “Oh hell,” Yahaba says. The Shirabu reflection’s mouth moves, shaping the same words.

Shaking, Yahaba runs trembling fingers through hair that feels too straight. It flops down into his eyes without any of his usual curls. Lowering his hand, he finds freckles in places they shouldn’t be, sores along knuckles where none previously existed.

The door opens. Yahaba drops his hand, immediately turning on the water and pretending to wash his face, as if scrubbing hard enough will make everything that looks like Shirabu disappear.

Akagi stumbles past him. Scratching his stomach, he offers Yahaba a good morning wave without really looking at him.

In the mirror, Akagi’s reflection does the same.

Yahaba grips the counter. The mirror isn’t broken, then. It’s not a prank. It _has_ to be a prank. His head hurts. Maybe Shirabu hit him harder yesterday than he realized.

Turning off the water again, Yahaba heads back to the gym. “It’s all a bad dream,” he whispers to himself in a voice that doesn’t belong to him. “I am going to wake up on the bus,” he continues. “And Shiratorizawa won’t be here.”

Almost everyone has woken up. Kita asks his team to roll up their beds neatly. The twins smack each other with pillows. On the other side, Ushijima has, remarkably, already changed into a jogging outfit, and he steps outside with only a brief nod in Yahaba’s direction.

Ahead, Yahaba sees himself.

The other Yahaba stares blankly as Watari speaks. Face concerned, Watari reaches out to touch him, but the other Yahaba—the fake Yahaba—slaps his hand away.

Yahaba feels Watari flinch even from all the way across the gym. This isn’t right.

“Lose somethin’?”

Yahaba looks up at the Shiratorizawa middle blocker. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know this guy’s name, but he gets the feeling that saying “Hello, I lost my body” won’t go over well.

The middle blocker shrugs. “Breakfast is outside,” he says, already walking away. Yahaba watches him go, two reserve players following after him.

Yahaba feels him before he sees him, but it still doesn’t prepare him to turn around and find himself face to face with himself. Yahaba opens his mouth and closes it. He reaches out to touch the fake Yahaba, but he smacks his hand away.

“Explain,” he says, eyes narrowing into daggers. “Now.”

“What are you?” Yahaba whispers.

“I know this is weird and you are stupid, but are you really _that_ stupid?”

“Shirabu,” Yahaba hisses.

Shirabu rolls his eyes, and the concept of Shirabu rolling Yahaba’s eyes is almost too much for Yahaba to handle. “So you have a brain after all.”

“Are you seriously making a brain joke?” Yahaba asks. “While I’m in your body? That’s the same as insulting yourself.”

Shirabu covers Yahaba’s mouth with his hand. “Stop talking.”

Yahaba considers biting him, but he supposes that will just hurt himself in the long run when he’s back in his own body and has bite marks on his hand.

A new fear runs cold fingers down his spine. _If_ he gets his body back.

Yahaba pushes his hand away. “How did this happen?” he asks. He glances around, but the gym has cleared out. Even Kunimi has been woken up and dragged off for breakfast. “This is your fault,” he says, and Shirabu rolls his eyes.

“Right. Because of all the people in the world I could swap places with, I would choose you.” Shaking his head, Shirabu walks away.

Yahaba frowns. “Is that what my hair looks like from the back? Wait! Where are you going?” He jogs to catch up.

“Breakfast.” Shirabu tries to run his hand through his hair, but his fingers get caught in the curls. “The hell?”

Grabbing his hand, Yahaba quickly untangles his fingers. The sinking suspicious that Shirabu is going to be the cause of his premature baldness outweighs all the awkwardness he should be feeling. “My team is outside,” he says. “You haven’t even brushed my hair. How the hell do you think you can go out there and interact with them?”

Shirabu smirks, the expression looking out of place on Yahaba’s face. “Are you afraid I’m not annoying enough to pretend I’m you?”

“You’re too annoying,” Yahaba deadpans. “You’ll give yourself away.” Putting on his best glare, he reaches up to flatten his hair down, only to remember Shirabu’s hair is already stupidly straight. He flips his bangs out of his eyes. “I’m Shirabu. I hate everyone.”

“As if I’d introduce myself to someone I hate,” Shirabu scoffs.

“That proves we can’t pretend we’re each other. And if anyone finds out about this…” Yahaba trails off. His team is rather level headed, even with the worst of things, but the jokes... He’ll become a meme. Hanamaki and Matsukawa may graduate, but Kunimi will carry on their legacy with ruthless timing, teaching the new players of the calamity that has befallen him. His very legacy will be tainted.

He can’t live with that kind of fate. Yahaba shakes his head. “No one can find out about this.”

Shirabu stares at him with an expression too flat, too unnatural, for Yahaba’s face. “I’ll go yell it from the rooftop then.”

Yahaba watches him walk away and sinks down to the floor, hanging his head. “I am going to wake up.” He pinches his arm. At the very least, any marks he leaves on this body will be Shirabu’s problem to deal with. Eventually.

His gaze trails over pale hands. Dark bruises cluster around his knuckles. Abrasions form thin lines across the pads of his fingers. Turning his hand over, Yahaba winces at the soreness hidden deep in his wrists, his back, his shoulders. When was the last time Shirabu let himself rest?

“Shirabu-san?”

He’ll need athletics tape if he’s going to play today. Shirabu probably has some in his bag. Before Yahaba can contemplate how awkward searching through Shirabu’s stuff will be, a new fear strikes him like a serve gone wrong.

Shirabu is the starting setter.

They’ll expect Yahaba to play.

“Uh, Shirabu-san?”

Yahaba looks up at Goshiki. He lingers in the doorway like a frightened mouse. After a moment, Yahaba realizes he’s there for _him_. “Yes, Goshiki-kun?”

Goshiki tenses. He backs away, until only his fingertips and the top of his head are visible, peeking meekly around the side of the door. “Are you gonna eat breakfast?”

Just the thought of food exacerbates Yahaba’s nausea, but his stomach growls. Sighing, he stands. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

* * *

“You’re not you when you’re hungry,” the strawberry giant says. Shirabu doesn’t know what that means, but the chocolate giant snickers. Shirabu is staring to doubt their mental health.

“Come on, guys,” the libero says. “He was just tired.” He bends his leg back, farther and farther, and Shirabu worries it may snap.

“Can we focus on the match?” The captain pouts. “We’re going to use a different tactic today.”

The angry one mumbles under his breath, something about tactics being stupid. If he weren’t absolutely rabid, Shirabu thinks he could possibly get along with him.

“We got them used to yesterday’s tactic,” the captain continues. “Now we change it up. Shiratorizawa is too dumb to handle unexpected change.”

Shirabu stops his leg stretches, his sneaker hitting the ground a little too hard.

“Shigeru?”

“You okay, Yahaba?”

Nodding, Shirabu starts stretching his arms. Yahaba’s limbs have a certain stiffness he’s not used to, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. His fingers bend well enough, and when he cracks his knuckles, he knows he can still win, no matter whose body he’s using.

The captain stares at him longer than he’s comfortable with.

“Shiratorizawa’s lining up,” Iwaizumi mumbles.

The captain nods. “Yahaba, are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“We’re starting out like yesterday. We don’t want to raise suspicious, now do we?” He winks. “Iwa-chan, formation three. Makki, you know what to do.” He pats the strawberry giant on the back. “I’ll start us out.” He ruffles Shirabu’s hair, and he struggles not to smack his hand away. “The second set is all yours.”

The libero lingers, looking between Shirabu and the court where the others have already taken their positions. “You’ve been quiet,” he says, voice uncertain. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Shirabu cracks his wrists, stretching his fingers. It won’t be long before Shiratorizawa obliterates their first set. He wishes he got a chance to practice setting with Yahaba’s body beforehand, but with Yahaba’s height it shouldn’t be too much of an adjustment.

On the other side of the net, Shirabu sees his own face, bloodlessly pale.

Sidestepping around a reserve player, Shirabu edges to the end of the line, closer to Shiratorizawa’s side of the court.

Yahaba’s hands tremble. He bites his lip hard, and Shirabu’s sure he’ll be feeling that when he gets his body back.

Shirabu shakes his head and tries not to think about it. He’ll wake up tomorrow back in his own body. Whatever happens between now and then doesn’t matter. How Yahaba’s adjusting doesn’t matter.

The ball flies across the court. Taichi receives. It arcs perfectly into Yahaba’s hands.

Yahaba sets.

The ball spirals upward, too high for Taichi, too low for Ushijima. Goshiki makes a mad dash to save it, but it slips past his fingers.

The ball thuds against the ground.

No one cheers. The Seijoh players watch with wide eyes and slack jaws. Across the net, Shirabu’s own team hovers awkwardly around Yahaba. Tendou pats his back. Goshiki apologizes.

The Seijoh captain’s face splits into a sinister smile.

Shirabu’s fists clench at his sides.

Recovering from his shock, number twelve serves. The strike is powerful, but Reon is stronger, saving it was a quick receive. Yahaba moves faster this time. He shoots a quick to Goshiki, who slams it down past the twin giants’ block.

Shirabu sighs in relief.

Sitting on the bench, Coach Washijou crosses his arms over his chest.

Shirabu closes his eyes. _Get it together, Yahaba. Please._

Point by point, Seijoh takes the lead. Shirabu watches the scoreboard rise to sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty. Tendou and Reon share worried glances. Behind them, Washijou signals to Semi, preparing to swap Yahaba out.

Ushijima serves.

Seijoh moves like a machine, multiple pieces coming together in one fluid movement. The libero saves it. The two first years run forward. From the back, Iwaizumi tenses, a pipe in the making. The captain leaps.

On the other side, Taichi marks the first years. Goshiki rushes to help him, but Tendou yanks him back, pointing out Iwaizumi.

The strawberry giant inches forward.

Shirabu looks to Yahaba, but he’s backing away.

The captain catches the ball. Iwaizumi jumps. The strawberry giant bends his legs, Tendou and Goshiki too far away to block him.

The captain twists his hands, not for a quick, but a dump. The ball drops.

Like a bird taking flight, Yahaba charges forward, leaping fast. He hits the ball with both hands. It soars past the captain, spiraling behind Yahaba, higher and higher, a chance ball gone awry. Yahaba’s face falls.

Rising through the air, Ushijima slams the ball down onto Seijoh’s side.

Shirabu sucks in a breath.

Shiratorizawa erupts into cheers, Yahaba’s victorious scream the loudest of all.

Shirabu’s lips quirk into a smile, but then the Seijoh coach blows his whistle. The players meander around them. On the court, the captain stares at Yahaba, gaze intense, until Iwaizumi drags him away.

The strawberry giant sips his water. “Oy, you lost your touch.”

The chocolate giant nods. “They saw your dump coming a mile away.”

“A real trash dump,” the strawberry giant agrees.

The captain’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They got lucky,” he says. Accepting a sports bottle from the manager, he glances over his shoulder at Yahaba. His lips curve into a challenging smile. “It’s time to put Bangs-kun in his place.”

His voice sends a chill down Shirabu’s spine, and for once, he’s glad it’s not him on the receiving end of his rage.

“Listen up,” he says. Sweat drips down his face, and he wipes it away with a towel. “Mattsun, mark their sleepy looking middle-blocker.”

The chocolate giant tilts his head. “Why not a spiker?” Iwaizumi asks.

Ignoring him, the captain holds up his hand. “Make me proud, Makki.”

The strawberry giant high fives him with a grin. “Yessir.”

The whistle blows. The players walk away, and with each step, the lump of anxiety in Shirabu’s stomach grows. He’s not routing for Yahaba. Even if he’s not technically on Shiratorizawa while he’s in this body, it’s only natural to want them to win. His worry is solely for his own team and his own standing as a starter. Nothing more.

Throwing the ball into the air, Yahaba leaps, slamming it down in a service ace.

Nothing more, Shirabu tells himself, ignoring the warm feeling sparking through his chest like pride. Nothing less.

A first year hits the next serve as it crosses the net. It slows enough for the chocolate giant to receive, arcing it back into the air. The captain sets. Iwaizumi spikes. The ball speeds for the ground.

Hayato dives, thumping it back into the air by the tips of his fingers. The ball bounces up. Reon sends it to Yahaba.

Like the pages of a book coming to life across a movie screen, Shirabu watches Yahaba look around wildly, his eyes landing on Taichi. The captain’s words circle through his head. “_Mattsun, mark their sleepy looking middle-blocker_.” Yahaba sets.

Shirabu inches forward, a warning on his lips.

Taichi jumps.

The chocolate giant blocks the spike, and the ball thumps miserably across the linoleum floor.

“We’re at match point,” the libero cheers, unaware of the gaping hole forming inside of Shirabu’s chest. Catching Shirabu’s eye, the captain winks.

He’s reading Yahaba like a book, Shirabu realizes. He always knew their captain was unusually perceptive, picking apart all of their weaknesses, coming up with stronger formations and relentless countermeasures. Like a magician with a book of all their thoughts and desires hidden up his sleeve, he presses harder on their right side when Ushijima’s exhaustion sets in, steering their spikers outside of Tendou’s reach, forcing Shirabu farther and farther into a corner with no escape.

Yahaba never stood a chance.

Shirabu doesn’t want to watch, but his eyes lock on Yahaba. The color has returned to his face, cheeks flushed with heat. Sweat plasters his hair to his face, and he pushes back Shirabu’s bangs with increasing frustration. His hands still tremble, no longer with nerves, but with the beginnings of fatigue, setting deep into his muscles. Shirabu doesn’t look to see who serves, but Yahaba’s eyes follow the ball, shining with determination.

Iwaizumi receives. The captain runs from the backline.

“_Make me proud_…”

Yahaba’s gaze narrows. “Get back!”

The strawberry giant jumps. His hands shift mid-leap, setting the ball. The captain leaps.

“_Makki_.”

Oikawa feints.

Bending his knees, Yahaba hits the ball underhanded, and it soars back into the air. “Goshiki-kun!”

Goshiki spikes, and the match point shatters into a deuce. Shiratorizawa players cheers. Goshiki throws his head back and roars. Standing amidst the chaos, Yahaba raises his head in a silent challenge.

Hiding a smile behind his hand, Shirabu feels his anxiety melt away.

* * *

Chatter floats around him, but the words drift through Yahaba’s ears. His hands shake. He did it. He played a full match. _He won_. He beat _Oikawa_.

Ducking his head, he bites down on a smile.

This is normal for Shirabu, he reminds himself. Shirabu wouldn’t care. But excitement bubbles through his chest, and he struggles to contain it.

The line slides forward. Lunch is the same as the day before, and Yahaba can’t decide if he should get what he had yesterday to see if it will return him to his own body or if he should avoid it like the plague in fear it will make him swap places with yet another person.

“They have snacks today,” Semi musses. He flips over a colorful packet.

“Oh?” Tendou leans in between them, wrapping an arm around their necks. “Look, they have Cracker Nuts, Kenjirou.”

Yahaba pushes him away. “I’m allergic.”

Semi’s gaze snaps to him instantly, but Tendou throws back his head in laughter. “Liar,” he chides, poking Yahaba’s nose. “You ate a whole bunch during our last away game.”

“Are you really allergic?” Semi asks.

Yahaba balks. Looking away, he mumbles, “I’m allergic to your stupidity.”

“Aww, Kenjirou,” Tendou whines.

Moving past the snacks, Yahaba accepts a bowl of ramen. That was too close. Glancing back, he chews his lip. He may have a peanut allergy, but Shirabu clearly doesn’t. Would it be dangerous to try them out? Just once? Shirabu’s body wouldn’t have the same lethal reaction as Yahaba’s. Or would it?

Yahaba freezes. Shirabu!

Shoving his bowl onto the nearest table, Yahaba whips around. Inarizaki players cluster around the two twins currently locked in some kind of chopstick battle. Behind them, another team fills out the next table, chatting languidly. Yahaba pushes his way through the lunch crowd.

Ahead, Yahaba catches a glimpse of pink hair, and he moves faster, nearly taking an elbow to the face. Oikawa and Iwaizumi slurp their noodles somberly. Across from them, Watari throws gummies into the air, catching them in his mouth.

Shirabu sits at the far end of the table.

Yahaba relaxes. He’s safe.

He reaches forward, picking up a colorful packet, and Yahaba’s heart stops. Bolting forward, he grabs Shirabu’s arm. “Can I talk to you?”

Iwaizumi and Oikawa stand. A shadow looms over Yahaba. Looking up, he finds Matsukawa and Hanamaki leering down at him. Kyoutani slams his chopsticks onto the table.

Yahaba shudders. “I want to apologize,” he says, fighting to keep the waver from his voice. “For yesterday.”

Shirabu’s eyes narrow, and the sight of his own face looking back at him with such distrust sends chills down his spine. It’s weird. _Unnatural_.

After a moment, Shirabu stands, and like a spell being broken, the others relax. Watari winks at him. Oikawa continues to glare, but Iwaizumi yanks him back into his seat.

Shirabu leads the way to a secluded part of the field and leans against the tree. “You may apologize now.”

“Shut up.” Yahaba rubs his arms for warmth, despite the heat. “I don’t like this. Do they always treat you like this?”

“Tendou-san? Yes.”

“No, my team. They’re so…” Yahaba looks back. “Cold.”

Shirabu opens his mouth, but he looks away and doesn’t speak.

“Shirabu-san?”

“Do you have a reason for dragging me over here?” Shirabu asks. “Or do you like wasting my time?” The breeze rustles the tree branches, and a leaf floats down, tangling in his hair. Yahaba gently takes it out of his curls.

“I came”—he drops the leaf—“because I like you best alive.” As the words leave his mouth, he wonders what would happen if Shirabu died. Would he be stuck in Shirabu’s body forever? He doesn’t want to think about it. “I’m allergic to peanuts. Like, dying allergic.” He gestures vaguely. “I’ve got medicine, but it’s a real drag to use and, yeah. No peanuts.”

Shirabu stares at him. Shuffling his feet, Yahaba looks away. “Do you have any, uh, allergies or whatever?” he asks.

Tilting his head back, Shirabu considers the question for a moment. Sports tape lines his fingers, and Yahaba wonders if he managed to ruin Yahaba’s fingers that quickly or if he did it to find something normal—something comforting—in all of the insanity.

“Bee stings,” he says finally.

Yahaba’s eyes dart up to the tree, looking for beehives, and Shirabu snorts. “Loser.”

“I am _protecting_ you, here,” Yahaba argues. Shirabu continues to smirk. Yahaba wants to knock that smug look off his face, but Oikawa’s gaze still burns into his back, reminding him that an act of violence will put him into an early grave a lot faster than any allergies. Yahaba sighs. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Whatever.” Shirabu starts to walk away.

Yahaba grabs his arm. “Seriously, Shirabu-san. Be careful.” He lets him go. In the distance, someone wolf whistles. “Also, I got a bone to pick with you about what the ever-loving duck you did to your fingers.”

Shirabu mouths the word “duck,” but his eyes drop to Yahaba’s hands, red and raw without the athletics tape to hide them.

“Keep them wrapped.”

“No.” Yahaba moves his hands away, feeling ridiculous for hiding Shirabu’s own hands from him, but someone has to. “They need air.” He runs his thumb along his knuckles, feeling out the bruises and abrasions. With ice, the swelling has receded, but soreness lingers.

Shirabu eyes him warily.

Yahaba rolls his eyes. “C’mon.” He pats his shoulder. “Let’s eat before all the food’s gone.”

* * *

Steam fills the room. Hot water beats gently against the tile floors. Standing outside, Shirabu glares at the showers.

Watari pulls his shirt off. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Shirabu mumbles.

“Shigeru,” he insists, voice growing stern. “You’ve been weird, like, all day.”

He’s been trapped in the wrong body all day. Shirabu closes his eyes, reminding himself that sarcasm won’t save him now. Not that it ever did, anyway. “I’m tired,” he says. Maybe by feigning illness, he can bypass the showers for a night.

Watari steps closer. He glances around conspiratorially before whispering, “What happened with Shirabu?”

“What?” Shirabu tenses, and Watari’s eyes gleam.

“Did he apologize?” he asks. “Did he ask you out?”

Shirabu steps back. “No.”

A sly smile quirks his lips, and Shirabu regrets deeming Watari as the one safe person on this hellish team. “You were talking for a long time, ya’ know.” Glancing around again, he whispers, “He stares at you _a lot_.”

Shirabu takes another step back, bumping into the wall. Watari blocks his escape. “You’re imagining things.”

“That’s what I thought!” His voice rises, far too loud for Shirabu’s embarrassment to handle, and he throws a hand over Watari’s mouth.

Chuckling, Watari pushes his hand away. “Sorry. But seriously!” He glances at the door. Through it, Shirabu can hear the sound of volleyballs thudding against the ground as Coach Washijou makes his team do their one hundred serves. “At first, it was just a little, ya’ know? Before he almost took your head off, I mean,” he says, and incriminating heat rises to Shirabu’s face. “But it’s been non-stop today.”

“You imagined it,” Shirabu repeats weakly, pushing his way past him. The showers suddenly seem a lot less scary in comparison to this conversation. Still, his fingers stick to the hem of shirt, not quite willing to take it off. It feels wrong. A major invasion of privacy he doesn’t want to think about. Bathroom breaks and getting dressed that morning had been hard enough, but this…

Watari rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna make me get his number for you?”

“Do not,” Shirabu hisses.

“But—”

The door opens, Shiratorizawa players streaming in, and Watari lets the conversation drop.

Not waiting for him to try again, Shirabu follows along, desperate to get this night over with. His heart pounds. He’s learned more about Yahaba in one day than he ever needed to find out. He’s annoying. His hair is annoying, Shirabu thinks, tugging his hands through the sweat tangled curls. His team is the devil incarnate. He’s allergic to peanuts.

He wants Shirabu to take better care of himself.

He’s single.

His best friend has eyes like a hawk.

Watari bumps his shoulder as he passes him, nodding his head towards where Yahaba and Semi are talking.

Shirabu shudders. When he gets his body back, Shirabu decides, he’ll have to be extra careful of Watari.

* * *

Clothes. Clothes. More clothes. Yahaba throws another shirt aside. Didn’t Shirabu bring any kneepads? He doesn’t want to be trapped in Shirabu’s body another day, but so help him if he has to go through even one more practice match with unprotected kneecaps…

At the bottom of Shirabu’s bag, he pulls out a cellphone, some earbuds, and a box of athletics tape but no kneepads. Yahaba sighs. Maybe Inarizaki has some spares he can borrow.

As Yahaba refolds Shirabu’s impressive collection of black shirts that all look exactly the same, the other players start making their beds for the night. Ushijima falls asleep first, which Yahaba finds both unexpected and surprisingly in character. Besides him, Semi writes in a beat-up journal.

Tendou flops onto his bed with an open manga. “Lose something, Shirabu-kun?”

Yahaba tenses. Tendou switches between honorifics and formality faster than he can keep track of, and it sets him on edge. “Just my phone.”

“This one?” From behind his manga, he pulls out Shirabu’s cellphone.

Yahaba looks between him and the empty place he left the phone sitting. “Really?”

“Really. SemiSemi,” he says, his thumb scrolling down the screen, “I have an entry for your diary.”

“Screw off.”

Laying between them, Taichi pulls his pillow over his head.

“Voices, please,” Reon says. “People are sleeping.”

“Reon,” Tendou whines, and Yahaba uses the distraction to snatch the phone from his hands.

Tendou rolls over, red hair flopping into his face. “Aww, I was just getting to the good part.”

Good part? Yahaba looks at the screen. Tendou had opened Shirabu’s notes app. Scrolling to the top, he finds the note titled “The Idiot’s Apology.” Biting his lip, Yahaba suppresses his urge to beat Shirabu with his own cellphone.

He didn’t even apologize, Yahaba thinks bitterly. Shoving the remains of Shirabu’s clothes back into his bag, he skims through the sarcastic opening remarks of “I’m sorry you’re an idiot” and the equally unapologetic “Stand here for a moment so Semi-san will leave me alone.”

The rest of the note dissolves into vague reminders to buy more athletics tape after the training camp and to put a water balloon in Tendou’s gym locker. As Yahaba wonders if that’s the alleged good part, he reaches the final two sentences, and the phone falls out of his hand.

Goshiki lifts one corner of his blindfold to glance at him. “Shirabu-san?”

Yahaba grabs the phone, quickly turning it off, but the words burn themselves into his mind. His face feels hot. He needs to clear his head. Standing up, he turns for the door.

_Smack_!

Yahaba stumbles. The phone drops. Blankets tangle around his leg, and Yahaba falls.

Above him, he sees himself, hands cradling his forehead, and it takes him a moment to remember it’s Shirabu.

_Shirabu_.

Yahaba gulps.

Wincing, Shirabu lowers his hands. “Could you be any stupider?”

Taichi pulls the pillow tighter over his ears. By now, the others have sat up, Reon leaning over to inspect Yahaba’s head.

“That’s gonna bruise,” Tendou says sagely, nodding to himself.

“Not again,” Semi sighs. “Are you alright, Yahaba-kun?”

“No,” Yahaba snaps, just as Shirabu mumbles, “Flippin’ peachy.”

Semi looks between the two of them, eyebrows raised. “Uh?”

“Did you need something?” Yahaba asks. Oikawa is already too suspicious of him. He doesn’t need more concerned senpai. He shouldn’t even be thinking of Semi as his senpai.

He turns his gaze back to Shirabu, and for once, the expression there is familiar. Hesitation. Regret. Doubt. They slide more naturally onto Yahaba’s face than Shirabu’s own, giving him away.

Not letting him turn back now, Yahaba stands. “This is about that book you let me borrow, right?” Yahaba lies. “I forgot it outside. C’mon,” he says, walking to the door, “I’ll get it for you.”

Shirabu pauses, but with the Shiratorizawa players staring at him, he has no choice but to follow Yahaba through the gym doors.

Dew seeps into Yahaba’s socks, and he regrets not putting on his shoes before coming out here. The lunch tables cast strange shadows, like abandoned tombstones. Bypassing them for a nearby bench, Yahaba sits down.

Shirabu lingers, not coming too close.

“I have a good feeling about tomorrow.” Yahaba tilts his head back. Overhead, pinpricks of starlight cut through the clouds. “We’ll be normal tomorrow.”

“You’ll always be weird,” Shirabu mumbles.

The insult rolls off Yahaba’s back, and he chuckles. Without realizing it, he started connecting the dots, mysteries about Shirabu coming together, until he finally feels like he understands him, just a little.

“This is where you apologize to me,” Yahaba says with a grin.

Shirabu glares. “In your dreams.”

“Come on.” Yahaba holds out his hand, motioning for Shirabu to come forward, not stopping until Shirabu reluctantly shuffles closer. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing,” he snaps, but he glances back at the gym. Under his breath, he mumbles, “People have eyes like hawks around here.”

Yahaba rolls his eyes, but he has a point. Oikawa’s perceptive skills could rattle even the bravest of men, Tendou and Kita not far behind. Yet, that slips to the back of his mind, his head clearing. His hands throb. A deep exhaustion tugs at his limbs, his soul, like nothing he’s felt before, until his anxiety dims and fades. A cheeky smile curves his lips. “I’ll help you start.”

Shirabu lifts an eyebrow.

“Repeat after me,” Yahaba says. “I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“Too hard for you?” Yahaba smirks. “Let’s try again. I’m sorry, Yahaba-senpai.”

Shirabu deadpans, “I would cut off a finger before I call you senpai.”

Shaking his head, Yahaba leans forward and grabs his wrist, tugging him to sit down. “One more time,” he says. “I’m sorry that Goshiki is so stupid.”

Shirabu tenses.

Taking a deep breath, sending a silent apology to Goshiki, he recites, “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“You went through my phone.” Not a question but an accusation. He tries to leave, but Yahaba grabs his hand.

“Technically, it was Tendou-san.” Shirabu glares at him. “Okay yeah, a little. Just the one note.” Shirabu continues to glare, and Yahaba squeezes his hand. “You know, I never realized a memo app could be a modern-day love letter.”

“Shut up!”

“On the bright side,” Yahaba continues, “if I already read it, you don’t have to be so nervous.”

Looking away, Shirabu mumbles, “I’m not nervous.”

“Terrified?”

“Shut. Up.”

Yahaba chuckles. “Repeat after me. A—”

Yanking his hand out of Yahaba’s grip, Shirabu steps forward, covering Yahaba’s mouth. “I’m sorry Goshiki’s such an idiot.” His hand slides beneath Yahaba’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. “You screwed that part up.”

“Is that really important right now?”

“It’s the most important part,” Shirabu says. “And you owe me big time for doing this while you have my friggin’ face.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Yahaba agrees. “Please continue.”

Satisfied, Shirabu nods. “I shouldn’t have hit you, I guess. After golden week and we get our own bodies back, you filthy body snatcher,” he says, and Yahaba bites down on a laugh. “Can I take you out sometime to make up for it?”

A moment passes, and then another. Yahaba waits, but Shirabu doesn’t continue.

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Shirabu-san.”

“You suck.” Looking away, he mumbles, “You’re really petty.”

Yahaba leans forward. “What was that?”

“You’re really pretty, you damn nerd.”

Standing up, Yahaba pulls him into a hug before he can run away and hide. Shirabu’s face may not be prone to showing emotions, but Yahaba’s is, revealing a bright blush burning across Shirabu’s cheeks. “And they say romance is dead.”

Shirabu stomps on his foot. Vaguely, Yahaba knows he deserved that, just a little.

“You didn’t answer,” Shirabu says.

“I know.” Yahaba lets him go. “Take care of your hands tomorrow”—he winks—“and it’s a date.”

Together, they head inside.

"And, whatever you do—"

"Yeah, I know. We don't tell anyone about this."


End file.
